You're Not Doing This Right
by oneofthosecrushingscenes
Summary: Clint and Bobbi are basically a couple of sex-obsessed thirteen-year-old boys, but they mean well, so Natasha puts up with them. This is basically a standalone, but it also sets up the relationship dynamics for the next fic I'm working on. (Sorry for the formatting problems; they're fixed now!)


The cafeteria on the Iliad is a long hall with buffet lines on each side of the room and gray lunchroom tables and benches on the middle. It reminds Bobbi a lot of her high school lunchroom, with its rows of uniform food and its midday buzz and overworked, overstressed masses decompressing. If there's one place on the helicarrier where, putting aside the uniforms, it's possible to forget that they're working for a top-secret initiative in a top-secret spy agency, it's here.

Since they're coming off a mission and subsequent debriefing, the room is already full by time she gets there. The chatter of colleagues and strangers is a pleasant white noise, and her stomach rumbles—she hasn't had anything to eat since a protein bar for breakfast, and the Arctic cold has given her an appetite and a half. She takes a tray and heads towards a line of chafers, looking over the options. Honestly, she could probably eat everything there.

Another tray bumps into hers, and she looks up to see her ex-husband, apparently released from his debriefing at the same time as her. The mission was a success, she guesses, since it went pretty smoothly, although she still has no idea how Jocasta ended up in a destroyed A.I.M. research facility, and she probably won't be told.

Clint nods in greeting, and they start to take food. She places a roasted chicken leg with possibly more paprika than actual meat on her tray, while he scoops a serving of garlicky green beans onto his, and then they trade trays and serve each other. Then they move down and do the same thing with the mushroom rice and the mixed greens salad. This routine only saves them ten seconds at the most, but ten seconds is an eternity at lunchtime.

They find a recently-deserted table with some leftover utensils and ketchup smears towards the end of the hall, and sit down across from each other.

"Where on Earth did you get a juice box from?" Bobbi asks. The cafeteria has a water cooler with hot and cold water, and a vending machine for cans. He must have brought this from home. She imagines him grocery shopping and picking up a pack of juice boxes, which makes her imagine him and Kate sitting around drinking from juice boxes, which makes her fight a smile. So she's not paying attention when the box, sans straw, comes flying at her.

If she had time to think, she wouldn't have caught it, because it's not her job to _indulge_ him, but unfortunately, her reflexes are honed to a tee, and she catches it, and because it's _not_ her job to indulge him, she moves the juice box out of range the second the straw leaves his hand, and—

—the straw pierces the seal as it finds its mark. "Ha! Knew you'd do that."

She sighs and hands over the drink.

"I need to find a new audience, Birdie. You're never impressed with my tricks anymore," he says. Then he kind of frowns and furrows his eyebrows and asks, "You are Bobbi, aren't you? No camotech fakeouts?"

"Of course I am. Who else would know about that Harry Potter scar on your ass?"

His first reaction is a smug smile as he digs into his food. "I hate to break it to you, darling, but you're not the only person on this helicarrier who—" and then his eyes narrow— "Hey, I don't have any Harry Potter scar on my ass!"

"Gotcha." She winks and starts to eat her chicken. "You know, you're surprisingly gullible about your own ass."

Clint _hmmphs_.

"Anyway," she continues, "revenge pranks aren't really Natasha's style." As far as she knows, Natasha is the only other person on this base Clint has ever slept with, but then again, it's none of her business what her currently-single ex-husband does in his spare time.

"Yeah, and speaking of which," Clint says around a mouthful of rice, "you probably shouldn't pretend to be her again, she's kind of sensitive about that whole," he spreads out his fingers, palms facing inwards in front of him, like he's looking for the right words, "you know… concept."

She should have known better. With Natasha's history, the idea of her body being anywhere she didn't decide to place it, doing anything she didn't decide to do—even if it wasn't actually her body—must be a sore spot. Which makes the fact that she signed on with this initiative a big question mark, but none of them really know why they're there to begin with, or why this whole thing needs to be so secretive. Why would she agree to do something so bad that it would be dangerous for her to remember it? Why would any of them?

And she knows she has to apologize for the trick, which will be weird, because she can never tell what Natasha is thinking. She admires her, but at the same time, she's intimidated by the other woman, who seems to have no weaknesses, never shows a chink in her armor. It wouldn't be quite a lie for Bobbi to call Natasha a friend, and she trusts her with her life, of course... and Clint is close with her—well, Clint used to date her, it's different—she _likes_ her, but she never knows what to say to her.

Sometimes it's easier for men and women to be friends. She doesn't want to measure herself against the the great Black Widow and come out lacking, but she does it anyway, in small ways, all the time. F #&ing patriarchy.

"I wasn't thinking," she says. "I'm sorry, I'll talk to her."

"Anyway, pranks are amateur-level use for this sort of technology. You know what you should be using it for?"

"If you're going to say—"

"Role-playing in bed!" He says it at the same time as she mouths the words.

"—it's not as if I have anyone to use it with at the moment."

"Well, you know, I'm always available for being experimented upon."

She knows he's joking, that this is all in fun, so she ignores the pang his words create in her stomach and says, light-heartedly, "Great, that takes care of step one. So who are you going to turn into for me? Want to be Wonder Man? I've always had a thing for Wonder Man."

He chuckles. "No, you haven't. You just made that up on the spot."

"Maybe, but I wouldn't say no. How about Luke Cage? Havok? Multiple Man? Oooh, would you get his powers?" It's always surprised her that Multiple Man doesn't get five times the game that he does.

"You tell me; I've never used it."

She sighs. "Unfortunately not. It just makes you look like someone and gives you their approximate body size and shape and voice and so on, depending on how much data SHIELD has on you, but no enhanced powers or even strength. You still move like yourself. So if I used it to change myself into you, I'd still kick be able your ass, sport."

"And if you used it to change yourself into me, we would have some sort of amazing sex."

A surprised laugh escapes her. "Never change, Hawkeye."

"Come on, you know it would be the same reversed."

She flutters her eyelashes exaggeratedly. "Okay, so your turn, who would I change into? And you're only allowed to say the names of people you haven't already slept with."

"Okay, yeah. Wait, now I have to think of someone I'm attracted to but haven't slept with."

After about a minute of Clint pulling at his ear, Bobbi raises her eyebrows. "Remind me how long I was supposedly dead for?"

"Kidding. There are lots of gorgeous Avenger women I've never slept with. Tons of 'em."

"For example?"

"For example… there's She-Hulk."

"Hard yes." She slams her soda can down the table. "I will absolutely be She-Hulk for you."

"No, no, I changed my mind. I get the image inducer, I get to be She-Hulk. You're you. We tape the whole thing and send it to her. She'll love it."

"Okay, but only if I get to be Cap next. And you're you."

"Excuse me, Cap is an angelic being of perfect goodness and purity, and unlike us filthy mortals, he doesn't have sex or any such drive."

"Wow, you're adorable when you're a fanboy."

While she's teasing him, Natasha walks by with her tray of food. Clint calls her name to get her attention, then waves her over. Natasha sits down next to Clint and starts eating, and Bobbi takes the lull in the conversation as an opportunity to apologize.

"Hey, Nat? I'm sorry about my stunt this morning. I wasn't thinking."

"What?" Natasha looks honestly puzzled and a little concerned.

"You know, with the image inducer?" Bobbi reminds her.

Natasha's face clears in understanding. "Oh, that." She waves it off. "It's fine."

So maybe she overestimated the importance of this issue in her head. Being so easily forgiven should make her feel better, but the way that Natasha drops the subject so easily just sends another reminder that although she's worked with this woman so many times, she still doesn't really know her very well.

And Clint, who is either excellent at diffusing awkwardness or excellent at creating it, picks up the dropped thread. "So, we're talking about using the image inducer for impure purposes. If you were using it with a partner, whose image would you use?"

Natasha doesn't hesitate in her response. "Using someone's form for sex without their knowledge is a violation."

There's a long silence, where Bobbi tries to figure out if Natasha is judging her, if she thinks that this is something Bobbi would do, if she thinks she's a bad person; wait, maybe she _is_ a bad person—

"We're not actually going to _do_ it," Clint points out.

"That's true," Bobbi hurries to agree. "We're not even sleeping together."

"Yeah, we haven't slept together since we broke up."

"Really?" Natasha actually looks surprised.

"We feel like it might put stress on our relationship."

"Although," Clint adds, "if we _were_ going to sleep together, a secret initiative we were both part of where our minds are wiped after every mission and we knew that we wouldn't remember any of it during our regular lives would probably be the ideal time."

"Theoretically."

Natasha snorts.

Clint puts his elbow on the table and leans on it, getting ready to gossip. "But be honest, Widow, if you had someone's consent, would you use it?"

"If this is your way of asking for a three-way with you and two Mockingbirds, the answer is no." She pauses. "Probably not."

Did she just make a joke?

"Aww, come on, Nat, what kind of a friend are you? I would totally give you a three-way with you and two—"

Bobbi widens her eyes and makes a very short slice in the air by her neck. Bucky is absolutely a no-go. None of them are allowed to mention him in any context to Natasha unless it's one hundred percent work-related.

"Two who?" Natasha asks.

"Uh, two Daredevils!" he says brightly.

That one was definitely fumbled, but she tries to help him with the recovery. "Good call, Daredevil is hot," Bobbi says, nodding. "It must be so romantic how he can know exactly what you're feeling based on your heart rate and scent."

Natasha looks at them blankly, and they stare back, expectantly.

Finally, she sighs loudly and rolls her eyes. "It is."

Bobbi pumps her first in the air. "I knew it!"

And then, because Clint can never leave good enough alone, he goes and says, "How about the Winter Soldier, what do you think of him?"

She groans and slaps her forehead, figuring it's too late for subtlety. "Clint, what the hell?"

"What? I'm just asking."

"It's none of your business," she hisses.

Then Natasha cuts in with an impassive, "You know, I don't know whether or not to be insulted by the fact that everyone thinks I haven't picked up on this situation, with everyone always changing the subject every time his name is brought up and everyone's weird behavior right around that time I was brainwashed by _his_ former colleague. It's obvious that I have some sort of romantic history with Barnes that was erased from my memory, and everyone's keeping it a secret from me because they're afraid to damage my psyche even more."

Clint's jaw is hanging open, and Bobbi is sure that she looks no less shocked.

"Oh, good... you know," Clint deadpans.

"Yeah, I know. I'm only the best spy in the world," she responds matter-of-factly, without a hint of arrogance. She's in a room full of spies—in fact, two out of three people at the table are spies—but she's not wrong.

"This is great! So can we fill in the blanks for you?" Clint offers.

Natasha shakes her head. "Thank you, but no. I don't want other people's biases to influence my perception of my past."

Clint's eyes widen. "What, you'd rather know nothing?"

"I know that there is something to know, and that's enough for now," Natasha explains. "I don't want to know my own life through other people's memories."

Bobbi thinks about that. She tries to imagine what her life would be like if there were just gaping holes instead of all of her memories of Clint, and then if someone else told her all about it. There's so much that no one else would know, though, like the way he tried to cover up that he couldn't hear her when she first proposed to him, or the way that they used to hold each other until the other would stop shaking after Skrull-related nightmares, the way he cried while breaking up with her for good, or how they just sat in the room for hours, holding hands, after she woke up from her coma, even though they were no longer together. No, she wouldn't want her and Clint's story told to her by someone else.

Clint doesn't seem to be getting it, though. "Okay, but how can you live in limbo like that?"

"Who said anything about living in limbo?" Natasha asks. "I'm living my life. If he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me, but I'm not waiting around for him."

"It's not like you can move on with anyone else, though. Everyone you know, knows him. And I know that it's the 21st century and women aren't considered chattel anymore, but everyone else remembers what it was like with you two, and no one who knows Bucky is going to go anywhere near you."

Natasha looks between them.

Bobbi shrugs. "Yeah. Sorry. He's right."

"Then I guess I'll need to meet some new people," Natasha responds.

"'Tasha," Clint whines.

"Clinton," she responds sternly, leaving no room for argument. And then, as if to force him to drop it, she taps her fingers twice on the table and declares, "Namor."

Clint spits out his juice, which makes Bobbi laugh.

"With the—with the little ankle wings?" Clint sputters. " _That's_ who you'd choose?"

A hint of a smile plays at Natasha's mouth.

"Are you putting me on?" he demands, and Natasha shrugs in response.

He pushes away his tray. "I can't even eat anymore. I've completely lost my appetite." He stands up. "I'm sorry, I have to go think about literally anything else in the world." He takes the tray and walks away, leaving it on the trolley next to the kitchen, and leaves the room, shaking his head.

Bobbi looks at Natasha, who shrugs again, as in, _What are you going to do_? "I like tall, dark, and angry," she admits.

"No, yeah, I think the ankle wings are cute," Bobbi says, impressed.

"Right? They are, aren't they?"

"They so are."


End file.
